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o n e ink
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nineteen ninety-six
A WOMAN with pale skin and tired eyes laid in a hospital bed, needles stuck into her arms and a breathing tube obscuring her complexion. Her eyebrows were twisted up in worry as she looked at the toddler sitting next to her — a rather adorable little girl wearing a badly knitted hat that hung to her eyebrows and past her ears. Curly blonde locks peeked out from the oversized yellow beanie, as well as big brown eyes that shone at the woman, despite her confusion.
Dianne Carter smiled at her daughter before unintentionally shivering.
"Mummy, you're cold," said the little girl, her bushy eyebrows furrowing.
"No, no. Mummy's all right," Dianne replied in a hoarse voice.
The toddler huffed before pulling the yellow beanie off of her head, uncrossing her legs, and standing on her knees. She leaned forward and tugged the hat over her mother's bald head, unfolding it so that it covered her ears.
The little girl sat back down once she was finished, gazing at her teary-eyed mother before shifting her gaze to the sleeves of her jacket. She began to pick at the tiny balls of fuzz as Dianne reached out a hand to comb through the mess of curly, blonde hair.
"Winnie," Dianne softly said, continuing to run her fingers through the little girl's locks. "Winnie, look at me."
The toddler lifted her dark brown eyes to her mother's pale blue ones, now glossed over due to tears. Dianne sighed as she studied her daughter's face.
Dianne was fading. She had lost her once vibrant blonde hair to the chemotherapy, her skin looked nearly transparent, her eyes were hollow. She was becoming a living ghost, desperately clinging to the only shred of life she had left — her daughter. Ah, her daughter.... So innocent, so confused.
She didn't understand why her mother looked so pale. Being only four, no one gave her any answers, either. But she was rather perceptive for her age, and spent her days in the waiting room pondering what was happening to her mother as opposed to playing with the toys that were offered to her.
On one of the occasions when Rose, a middle-aged receptionist that looked after her, allowed her to sit on the counter and observe, the toddler spotted something odd — a printer on a nearby desk that was spitting out documents, the text on one lighter than the next until the pages were entirely blank. The printer ceased its actions altogether, unnoticed by anyone, save for the little girl with furrowed eyebrows.
"Rose?" she inquired, her brown eyes fixed on the stack of papers, which were soon swept up by Jamie, another receptionist.
"Yeah baby girl?" said Rose as she looked up from her work.
